


Please Don't Say You Won't.

by peachchild



Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, M/M, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, aidan is useless at feelings, but so are dean and richard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 12:05:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachchild/pseuds/peachchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We’re not the only people in the world to try a polyamorous relationship,” Dean pointed out. “I mean, there are enough people that there’s a word for it. If anyone can make it work, it’s the three of us.”</p><p>And really, that was how easy it was. At least at first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Don't Say You Won't.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is shamelessly stolen from [this song](https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&ved=0CC8QtwIwAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DzGQE2IQTgbg&ei=cb3mUcDYHMWSqgG7voHYDw&usg=AFQjCNEez7Y3k5Uc0fw7dgL4IfJYlBZBBw&sig2=izn-4ceQbKccLV26t-KwsA&bvm=bv.49405654,d.aWM). Other songs referenced in this story are [Blue Carolina](https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&ved=0CC0QtwIwAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DG1WhKeiK2SQ&ei=y73mUcylEY7cqwHpqoHQDQ&usg=AFQjCNHujglV_xMAhLSZYMfraramLpsYJA&sig2=jNtRlnTQkQJBMTpbliqrkw&bvm=bv.49405654,d.aWM) and [Nose Over Tail](https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&ved=0CC0QtwIwAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DCtwSVyUoA-4&ei=5L3mUaMLwYmrAYn3gfgK&usg=AFQjCNG5Vq30TA717ak5cMjqh4ySkFxIzA&sig2=NxVIorMPVouxIuyKnz1t3w&bvm=bv.49405654,d.aWM) because I also shamelessly adore the Alkaline Trio.

They all share a bed.

Aidan wakes with Richard’s arm slung heavy across his stomach and Dean’s cheek and nose mashed into his collarbone. He blinks at the ceiling, dosed with the cool darkness of the room, the hum and whirl of the box fan in the corner that Richard likes to have on for white noise (He says his head gets too loud for him to sleep if it’s silent). The sun must just be up, judging from the warm light slicing through the edge of the blinds, and Aidan expects his alarm to go off any moment.

He thinks about grabbing his phone from his nightstand so that the alarm doesn’t wake Dean or Richard, but that means moving, and he’s not entirely sure he’s prepared for movement just yet. The most he can convince himself to do is nose against Richard’s neck and press several open-mouthed kisses there, a much nicer way to wake someone, until Richard groans, a low rumble in his throat, and smooths his hand over Aidan’s stomach. 

“Good morning,” Aidan says quietly. “I have to go soon.”

“Mmm, I know.” Richard lifts his head just enough to press a kiss to his mouth. “You should go out my side of the bed.”

“I know.” Aidan grins at him. Dean is historically the worst person in the world to wake up, especially on accident. Aidan usually does it with a cup of coffee and toast, because food and caffeine is the only thing that will keep the grumbly sleepy Dean at bay. “I’m going to climb over you, so don’t worry about moving.”

“You’re such a gentleman,” Richard teases. They kiss again, slowly, and then Aidan wiggles his way out from under Dean and over Richard and off the bed just in time to hit his phone’s alarm dismissal. 

Richard rolls over and rests his cheek against his forearm to watch him pad around the room collecting his things and getting ready to shower. “Good luck today. I’m sure you’ll nail it.” 

The first wave of anxiety washes over him, as it is wont to do before any audition, especially when it’s been so long since he’s done one. He smiles over his shoulder at him anyway. “Thanks. I’ll let you know how it goes.” He bends to kiss his forehead and hurries into the bathroom to get ready.

When he emerges half an hour later, Richard has drifted off to sleep again, and he and Dean sleep back-to-back, a distinctly Aidan-sized space between them. He frowns at them, chewing on the edge of his thumbnail, then his watch beeps to remind him of the hour and he’s off.

* * * 

The flat is still quiet when he lets himself in, a bag of danishes between his teeth, balancing coffees on one hand while he unlocks the door. He pushes it closed with his heel and toes off his shoes so he can creep into the bedroom without startling anyone. He pauses in the doorway.

Dean and Richard lie close together, not touching, but murmuring in the light cracking in through the window. Their eyes are hooded, their voices rough with residual sleep. Aidan can’t make out what they’re saying, but his heart warms at the sight of them - these men he loves, waking up together, here for him when he comes home. 

Then Richard catches Aidan’s eye, and it somehow breaks the spell when he smiles at him, and he and Dean roll apart and make space for Aidan in the middle, because there is always space for Aidan in the middle, so Aidan occupies it. “I brought coffee,” he says, a little superfluously, and hands a cup to each of them. “And pastries.” 

Dean sits up at the prospect of breakfast and takes a bigger-than-necessary gulp of his coffee. His hair is matted down on one side where he slept on it. He kisses Aidan’s cheek. “Thank you. How did it go?”

“It went.” Aidan shrugs. Grins. “I dunno, I think I probably got the part. They asked me for a callback right there.”

“Aid, that’s great.” The way Dean smiles makes him feel like he already won a fucking BAFTA for the role or something. “We knew you’d do well.” 

“Yes, we did,” Richard confirms, rubbing his back. He rolls over to press a kiss to his hip, apparently unwilling to admit to being completely awake, even with the smell of strong black coffee settling over the room. It’s enough to make Aidan’s eyes burn awake. “You always work yourself up and then do fine.”

Aidan takes a bite out of his cheese danish, scowling. “It’s part of my process,” he declares with his mouth full. “I have to be all upset about it before I can succeed at it.” 

“If you say so.” Dean quirks a skeptical eyebrow at him, caught between just-woke-up snippy and caffeinated snarky.

Aidan swallows his danish, looks between them. “So what were you guys talking about? It looked like something serious.”

Richard blinks at him, then at Dean. “We were talking about the dog downstairs.”

“What?”

“Yeah, it started barking probably just after you left, and kept at it for like, an hour.” Dean shrugs. “So we were grumbling a bit. It’s stopped now, so that’s alright.” 

“Mmm.” Aidan twists his lips up, but lets it go. 

* * * 

Richard is one of those dear men who loves to cook but doesn’t tell anyone. The only way to find out is to be close enough to him that he wants to cook for you. Aidan is luckily that close. He comes home from a visit with friends to the tangy smell of pasta sauce and the rich scent of steaming vegetables. He drops his bag by the door and follows his nose into the kitchen, where Richard is stirring a pot of tomato sauce on the stove and Dean is sitting on the island counter, nursing a beer and kicking his feet. 

He grins when he sees Aidan and beckons him over so he can touch his fingers to his chin and draw him up to kiss him. Aidan can’t help grinning himself, because every time he comes home and finds Dean and Richard here, together, enjoying each other’s company, he feels warm and secure, and not so much like he tore their lives apart so that he could have them both.

“So my mum sent me a recipe for this pasta primavera she made a lot when I was younger, that I loved, and Rich said he’d make it for me, since I’m likely to burn the whole building down if I’m allowed anywhere near the stove.” Dean curls his fingers in Aidan’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. 

“It smells amazing.” Aidan tilts his head a little, a cat encouraging Dean’s petting. “Richard’s so good to us.” 

“Yes, I am, and don’t you forget it.” Richard grins over his shoulder at them. “I feel I’m entitled to not do the washing-up tonight, since I’m being your kitchen slave as is.” 

Aidan pads over to wrap his arms around Richard, kissing the back of his neck and hooking his chin over his shoulder. “Of course you are. After dinner, you’ll prop your feet up with a glass of wine and watch Dean and I do the dirty work - literally.” 

“This is starting to sound like a bad porno,” Dean complains.

“Or an excellent one.” Aidan winks back at him. 

* * * 

Aidan always thought, when he dared to let his feelings become thoughts, that sex with Dean and Richard would be dirty, just because of the nature of having sex with two people at the same time - and it’s like that sometimes. Sometimes, Dean gets off on being slightly voyeuristic, and sometimes, the way Richard talks makes Aidan want to make sure that it’s really him, because how can words that _filthy_ come out of such a buttoned-up man. 

But mostly, like tonight, the sex is sweet, because Richard is, and it’s playful, because Dean is, and as always, Aidan is at the center of everything. It used to make him preen, to have the attention of these two beautiful men that he would cut his own heart out to make happy. 

Richard kisses his neck, and Aidan tips his head back, eyes closed, and lets himself be carried away by his clever fingers, and Dean’s practiced mouth, and the fact that it’s _so easy_ for them to do this. They’ve done it so often, with such a smooth rhythm, that they don’t need to think about it anymore. He comes quietly, breathing harshly through his nose, with Dean’s mouth on him, Richard’s fingers rubbing into him.

He opens his eyes when he feels Dean’s fingers against his jaw, finds his bright eyes and flushed face close to his own. They smile at each other, like they’re sharing a private joke, and Dean kisses him. 

Dean is good at reading kisses. It’s a gift that Aidan doesn’t think a lot of people probably have. Dean was able to tell, from that first slightly-drunken night, when they ended up tangled up on the couch in Dean’s trailer with their mouths mashed together and Dean’s hand in Aidan’s pants that Aidan was smitten with him. He knew the moment he realized it, because Dean looked down at him, and he grinned that wonderful Dean grin and said: “You know, I think I’m a little in love with you,” before returning to kissing the air from his lungs. 

So now, when Aidan is hesitating, biting himself back from the kiss, even as he lifts his head to meet Dean’s mouth, Dean knows and recognizes it. He smooths a hand over Aidan’s stomach, a gesture meant to soothe, and props himself up on his elbow. He touches his fingertips to Richard’s chin, draws him in to kiss him, and Aidan watches them, the way they lean over him to meet each other, the way Dean’s hand curls into Richard’s hair, the slide of tongues between their mouths, and he almost looks away, because they’re beautiful and it makes the back of his eyes sting to know they’re doing this for him. 

Because they read him so well, so quickly, they realize at once when things have changed. Of course it happens sometimes. Of course, sometimes, they end up not finishing, because they get tired, or one of them just can’t quite get into the mood, or once, because Richard made a terrible joke, and they ended up in a terrific laughing fit that lasted forever, and they only calmed when they were so exhausted from smiling, and their ribs hurt so much, that they could only curl up under the blankets together and exchange sleepy kisses and murmur at each other between smiles.

Neither of them asks Aidan what’s wrong, which is just as well, because the question would only make him feel pried open, like he’s awake and not anesthetized during a vivisection. He looks up at the ceiling and squeezes his hands into fists so he doesn’t have to meet either of their eyes. So Dean presses his lips to the hollow of his collarbone and Richard pulls the blankets up around the three of them, and they lie there quietly in the near-darkness. Dean rests his forehead to Aidan’s temple, and Aidan listens to the soft whistle of his breaths against his jaw. Richard runs his knuckles along Aidan’s ribcage, up and down, up and down, until eventually, his hand strays too low and finds Dean’s. He laces their fingers together against Aidan’s hip. Narrowing his focus to the feeling of their hands, Aidan sleeps.

* * * 

Richard goes out to have breakfast with his mother the next morning, and Dean and Aidan laze on the porch swing they somehow rationalized having on their balcony. Aidan is leaning heavily against Dean’s side, gazing out toward the east, watching the sun creep up and nursing his tea. They’ve had a quiet morning, so far, and Aidan would like to keep it that way, but he has a feeling there’s a conversation brewing in Dean’s mind that he’s not going to be able to avoid.

It comes more quickly than he thinks it will. “Going to tell me what’s been bothering you the past few days?”

Aidan winces. “Wasn’t planning on it,” he murmurs.

“Mature.”

He shrugs vaguely and sips his tea, and for half a hopeful second, he thinks Dean is going to drop it. 

No such luck. “It’s not the audition, is it? Because I’m sure you did great. You actually seemed pretty confident about it yesterday.” 

“No, it’s not that.” 

“I can’t read your mind, Aidan.” Dean breathes out a sigh. Aidan’s glad he can’t see his face. “Is it - I mean. You’d tell us if we weren’t making you happy, wouldn’t you? We can’t fix it if we don’t know what we’re doing wrong.”

Oh. He hadn’t even thought that was how it might be coming across. Aidan tilts his head back to look at Dean upside-down. “You both make me so happy,” he says quietly. 

Dean kisses his forehead. “Rich thought maybe you didn’t want this anymore, but cared about us too much to say so.” 

Aidan sits up abruptly, twists to face him. He is unreasonably angry, but he’s not sure if it’s because Richard and Dean have been talking about it or if it’s because there’s guilty stirring in his stomach, and he _hates_ feeling guilty. “Have I really been acting like that much of a prick?”

“No.” Dean shrugs one shoulder. “Not really a prick. Just... distant. There’s this look you’ve been getting on your face lately. And then last night...”

Aidan looks down at his hands.

“Look.” Dean doesn’t touch him. Just looks at him. “I don’t need you to tell me, if you’re not ready to tell me. Unless what you’re not telling me - not telling us - is that you don’t want this anymore. Because if that’s the case, you need to tell us right now.” 

Aidan lifts his eyes to Dean’s face, sees the tick where he’s clenching his jaw. He cups his face in his hands. “I love you,” he says quietly, touches their foreheads together. Dean relaxes incrementally. “I want this. Please, please, don’t let me ever make you feel like I don’t want this.” 

* * * 

They go to bed after that, and Aidan curls himself around Dean, and they breathe against each other’s necks, and Aidan presses his fingernails into the space between Dean’s shoulder blades, his hips lifting to meet every downward punch of Dean’s. It’s been so long since Dean’s been inside him, he’s almost forgotten what it feels like, and the ache of that knowledge has him sobbing through his orgasm, quaking on the edge of tears. 

Dean, bless him, doesn’t ask, doesn’t demand an explanation. They pause for kisses, and Aidan’s hands curl around Dean’s face, hold him there, and Aidan hooks a leg up over his hip and pulls him in, gives him permission to continue, so Dean does, the slow drag inside him sending a tremor from Aidan’s heels to the base of his spine. By the time Dean comes, there’s a flush creeping up his neck, and the muscles in his shoulders have gone tense, and Aidan is hard again. So he lies back against the pillows and lets Dean suck him off, pressing his fingers into his hair, his breath a staccato of moans. 

After, Dean curls up around Aidan’s back, his hand resting against Aidan’s chest, and Aidan laces their fingers together. They don’t speak for a long time. When they do, it’s Aidan: “I’ve missed that,” he murmurs. “I’ve missed you.”

Dean kisses his neck, smiling. “Idiot. We live together.”

“I know. There’s just - I start to think sometimes that I’m not giving either of you the love or attention you deserve. I can’t remember the last time just you and I made love. Or just Richard and I.” 

There is quiet for a long moment. Then Dean says, “Do you want to... try that? I mean. Separating a little, so it’s not all three of us all the time? You could take turns with us.” 

Aidan shrugs. “Maybe. Is that okay?”

“We can always try it, see if it helps. Why don’t we talk to Rich when he gets home, and work out a plan?”

Aidan feels such joy, suddenly, that there is such an easy solution, that he’ll be able to take care of his lovers better, and he’s so very relaxed at the thought that his muscles ache. “Alright.”

* * * 

The arrangement they come up with makes Aidan feel a little like the child of divorced parents. But he also feels terribly glad that Richard and Dean seem to be so serene about the whole thing, and it makes guilt gnaw at his stomach, because does their comfort with this mean they’ve been unhappy too? He envies them for being better at hiding it than he is.

He worries it will be awkward, at least at first, since it means that someone has to make himself scarce, and that’s hard when the flat belongs to all of them. But in the end, it works out, because Dean gets a call from his agent that some show in New Zealand wants him to read for a guest appearance, and because Dean does nothing half-arsed, he decides to fly down in a few days to do just that, despite his agent’s reassurance that he could send a video or Skype the reading. 

“It’ll give us all a bit of time to get acclimated,” Dean explains to Aidan and Richard as he’s packing. “I’ll be out of your hair, you guys can have some one-on-one time, and I’ll get to visit my parents and maybe even come back with a job.” He kisses them both goodbye when he leaves, and Aidan feels terribly strange to know he’ll be on the other side of the world soon, far out of his reach.

“Alright, love?” Richard asks, kissing his hair, when they come in from waving his taxi to Heathrow goodbye. 

Aidan shrugs. “I forget sometimes that most of Dean’s life is in New Zealand, and that I sort of ripped him away from that.”

“You know Dean. He doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do.” 

And that’s true. It doesn’t stop the ache of separation from stirring already.

Aidan is surprised by how much time he and Richard spend together in those first few days. Richard is a notorious workaholic, so having him at home, smiling, cooking dinner, helping Aidan with the most impossible jigsaw puzzle on the planet, is a strange blessing. 

Then the email comes through: Play _Richard III_ at the Globe? and how in the world is Richard going to turn something like that down, and how in the world is Aidan going to tell him that he can’t do it. Aidan has been in for his own second reading, and it looks promising; he will probably get the part. It’s an independent film, a love story called _Blue Carolina_ , something he doesn’t usually do, and he’s so excited for the change of pace that he practically bounces around the flat.

So in the end, the two weeks Dean is gone fly by, with Richard and Aidan parted for the day, coming home in the evening to eat dinner and watch the news and talk about their days, and it’s so terribly domestic that Aidan’s teeth ache with the joy of it.

When Richard officially gets the part, three days before Dean’s meant to come home, they celebrate with champagne, and Aidan Skypes Dean, even though it’s 8 in the morning there, so they can tell him, and Dean grins so proudly, even with his sleepy eyes and bedhead, that he might as well have been the one to get the job.

“How are things there?” Richard asks, his hand curled loosely around Aidan’s wrist, making the bubbly drunk happiness in him rise right to his head. “How’d the audition go?”

“Ah, it was sort of a bit part.” Dean shrugs. “Boring. I might turn it down.”

“I’m sorry, Dean.” Aidan frowns. “That sucks.”

“Nah, it’s alright. A few art galleries have been in contact; they’re interested in presenting my next show. So I’m going to meet with a few of them before I come home.” 

_Home._ Home is London, with Aidan and Richard. Aidan grins so widely, his cheeks hurt. 

“The next step will of course be _finishing_ the collection, but that’s another hurdle.”

“You’ll do great. You can always photograph Richard and me. We are terribly good-looking after all.”

“You make a valid point.” Dean laughs. “Seriously, though, congratulations, Rich. Don’t have too much fun celebrating. I’ll see you in a few days.”

* * * 

Aidan fell in love with Dean because Dean was his best mate and it’s sometimes hard not to fall in love with your best mate. 

But really, Aidan wanted Richard first. There was something about him that attracted Aidan from the start: his studious approach to acting, his surprisingly quick wit, his firm grasp on who he is, and his terrific kindness. When he realized that he could actually _have_ Richard, he wasn’t sure what to do with the information - other than jump for joy, of course.

Now, he lies on the couch with his head in Richard’s lap. Richard is lazily combing his fingers through Aidan’s hair as he watches the news, and Aidan watches Richard. “Do you remember the first time you kissed me?” 

The corner of Richard’s mouth quirks. “Yes.” 

“I don’t.”

“I know you don’t. That’s why you like me to tell this story.”

“Hey, you’re the one who took advantage of me when I was drunk.” 

“Excuse me, you actually _threw_ yourself at me. I thought it was just an expression, but you actually punched me with your mouth.”

“Shut up.” Aidan laughs despite himself. “You liked it.” 

“I did, unfortunately, because I liked you. I was willing to put up with a lifetime of terrible kisses because I liked you so much.”

“Luckily, I’m a better kisser than you expected.”

Richard pulls a face, and Aidan thumps him in the chest with the back of his hand, laughing. “Well, it’s why we have Dean around, isn’t it? He’s the best kisser of the group of us.”

“Oh, Dean is a good kisser.” Aidan nods seriously. “But we must never tell him because it’ll go straight to his head.”

“Our secret.” Richard grins. They’re quiet for a long moment. Aidan occupies himself with kissing each of Richard’s fingertips. “Do you miss him?”

“Loads,” Aidan says honestly. He feels like he should feel guilty saying it, as if he doesn’t appreciate this time with Richard. “But I’m glad he went too. He’s got all these opportunities on, which is so good for him... and you and I get to spend all this time together, just the two of us, which doesn’t happen that often, so missing him - I guess I can deal with it, for a few more days.” He draws his hand up to kiss the inside of his wrist. “Do you ever feel like... I sort of gave you a shitty deal here?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean. I was seeing you, really. And then suddenly, I was also with Dean... Do you ever feel like I kind of screwed you over?” 

Richard takes a moment to think about it, which Aidan appreciates. He’s suspicious that he’s been mindlessly pandered to regarding this subject. (If he’s honest with himself, though, he knows that Dean has faced all of this with what Aidan likes to refer to as his “Kiwi serenity”, and hasn’t been pandering at all.) “I think if you weren’t as upfront with me about it as you were, it would have been a lot worse,” Richard says slowly. “I think I was hurt, and a little confused, but... well, I’m not going to lie. Dean helped.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. We talked a lot about it, if we were capable of... well, sharing you.” Aidan sticks out his tongue at the word choice, and Richard chuckles apologetically. “What we came up with - well, we’re terribly fond of each other, you know - Dean and me. And we figured, if anyone could do it, it would be the two of us.” 

Aidan smiles up at him. “I’m glad you thought about it that carefully,” he says quietly. Something shifts in Richard’s face, and Aidan lifts a hand. “I’m being sincere. I know this was a big change, a lot to ask of you two. I’m glad you both thought so seriously about whether this was something you could want.” 

“It had nothing to do with wanting it. It was just whether we could _do_ it.” Richard’s mouth quirks into a little smile. “But - I mean, it turns out we could. Though I’m starting to think you’re struggling with it a bit.”

“I just... I’m worried there isn’t enough of me to give,” Aidan admits. “I want to give all of me, to both of you, and that’s terribly difficult sometimes.”

“You shouldn’t ever be giving all of you to either of us. You’ve got to keep some for yourself.”

Aidan knows he’s probably right, but he is not quick to admit it.

* * * 

Aidan is at the door the moment it opens to greet Dean. Before he’s even able to put his bag down, Aidan has his face in his hands, pressing their mouths together, and Dean is laughing into the kiss, curling his hand in Aidan’s hair and standing on his toes to kiss him more easily. 

“I am never going more than a day without kissing you ever again,” Aidan vows, rubbing their noses together in an eskimo kiss. 

“I’ve missed you too.” He can feel Dean’s smile. “But right now, I desperately need a shower.”

Aidan doesn’t insist on joining him so much as he just climbs in behind him, not that Dean complains. Aidan wraps his arms around him and presses himself up against his back, kisses the crown of his shoulder, frowns. “Do your shoulders hurt today?” 

Dean hums an affirmation. “It’s been a long couple of weeks.”

He’s always been an easy-going person, quick to smile or joke, quick to look for sunshine in the world, and Aidan always wondered where he stowed his more negative thoughts: his anxieties and sadness and frustration. He learned quickly, once they became close, that he holds it all in his shoulders; he can feel it in the sharp knots of them, can sometimes see it in the way Dean constantly stretches or rubs at them. No one is in need of constant massages the way Dean probably is. 

Aidan reaches around him to turn the temperature up on the water, guides Dean further under its stream, and presses his thumbs into some of the harder knots, watching for that tick in Dean’s neck that says where it hurts most and concentrating on those areas. “I thought things went well,” he questions slowly.

“They did.” Dean shrugs carefully. He doesn’t look back at him. “I just. Leaving home was hard. And I missed you guys so much. I didn’t realize, I guess, just how... I mean, I love you. But I don’t think I knew how hard it was going to be for me to be away from you.” He rubs a hand over his face, and Aidan can feel his shoulders going tense again. “I’m sorry. I think I’m just tired.”

“Don’t do that,” Aidan chides. “No writing off your feelings. What can I do, to make it better?”

“Just stay close. Please.”

He says it like it’s something he can’t have. Aidan doesn’t understand why.

* * * 

They take a taxi to Southwark that afternoon and walk half a mile to the Globe, just to enjoy the midsummer sunshine. They don’t hold hands, though Aidan thinks Dean probably wants to, but they walk close together, letting their knuckles brush together and talking quietly.

Rehearsals are closed, but the stage manager lets them in anyway, and Richard’s sitting on the edge of the stage, looking over notes in his script and drinking a bottle of water. He smiles when he sees them, hopping down to greet them. He hugs Dean first, and Dean holds onto him with his hands fisted in his jumper, laughing at something Richard whispers into his ear.

“What’s so funny?” Aidan demands, pouting a bit, but Richard just kisses his cheek and shakes his head. 

“Just telling him you walked about the flat moping the whole time he was gone.”

“Completely untrue!” He makes a face, defensively. “I only spent like, twenty-five percent of the time moping.”

Dean’s eyes crinkle up at the corners with his smile. “I’m sure.”

They sit in the front row and wait for him to finish for the night. Aidan curls his hand around Dean’s, petting his palm lightly, and Dean sags a little against his side, watching Richard move around the stage. “He’s a bit amazing, isn’t he?”

“Just a bit.” Aidan kisses his hair. “So are you.” 

The three of them get fish and chips for dinner, at Dean’s insistence (“I’ve been out of Britain for two weeks; we’re doing something British.”), and walk along the South Bank talking. When the sun starts to set, they head home. Dean goes droopy-eyed and quiet in the cab, and Richard has to prod him up the stairs to their flat.

While he’s cleaning his teeth, Richard pulls Aidan into the kitchen to help him make tea. “I think I’ll sleep in the guest room tonight,” he tells him slowly.

Aidan blinks at him, frowns. “What? Why?”

“Well, you and I have been together all week.” Richard shrugs. “Dean needs some time with you.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to sleep somewhere else.”

“Look.” He kisses Aidan’s forehead. “We agreed, yeah? We’d take turns. We’d each take some time with you. And right now, I think Dean needs some attention focused on him.”

Aidan runs his hand through his hair, breathing out his frustration. “How can you see that so easily, when I can’t?”

Richard’s smile is sad. “Just trust me on this one, okay? It’s just for tonight.”

So Aidan trusts him and takes Dean to bed. They don’t make love, even though Aidan thought that would be the first thing they did when Dean got home. Aidan drags Dean close to him, curls around his back, petting his stomach. He can tell by Dean’s breaths that he’s already dozing. 

“Next time you go away, take me with you,” Aidan murmurs in his ear, resting his cheek against his hair.

Dean smiles with his whole body, and they sleep.

* * * 

They get busy.

That’s bound to happen, really. They’re three moderately successful men, and they have jobs and lives outside of each other. Aidan has viewed the last few months as something of an extended honeymoon. He likes the thought, where he keeps it hidden secret in the back of his brain, because it makes him feel like this is forever, and that pleases him.

He walks off the set of _Blue Carolina_ and into the arms of whichever of his lovers is home. Sometimes, they both are, and they separate, and let him have time with whichever of them he feels he needs to spend time with, and that’s wonderful of them, that they’re so patient with him, so patient with the need he feels to give both of them the attention they deserve, even if it means seeing both of them slightly less.

(Sometimes, he misses them terribly. But there isn’t much he can do about that right now.)

Dean has taken Aidan’s joking advice, and has decided to photograph him and Richard, along with half a dozen other people, in their homes. “What’s more intimate, and more telling about a person, than capturing them in a state of relaxation, in a place where they feel comfortable?” he asked, when explaining the concept to them.

“But Richard and I share a home,” Aidan pointed out.

“Yes.” Dean grinned. “And isn’t that telling about both of you?”

Now, Aidan has a rare day off, and Dean is following him around the flat, snapping photos of him doing mundane things: making coffee, dozing on the balcony, sitting on the couch with his script, feet bare and shoulders curved. 

Aidan looks up at him after three hours of this, frowning. “Isn’t this a bit boring for you?”

Dean lowers the camera enough to grin at him, and Aidan takes a moment to appreciate how terribly in love with Dean he is. Then Dean makes it worse by saying, “Photographing you? Nothing in the world could be less boring.”

Aidan goes bashful, for maybe the first time in the world, and dips his head. Dean shuffles in to lift his face and press a kiss to his mouth. Aidan’s hands slot in against Dean’s hip, and he hums happily. “Hey, if you’re including Richard and me in your collection, shouldn’t you do a self-portrait too?”

“How do you figure?”

He shrugs. “Well, you’re showing us in our environment, right? We’re all a part of each other’s environment.”

Dean frowns thoughtfully, fingering the lens cap on his camera. “I didn’t really think about it that way.” 

“It’s just a suggestion.” Aidan laughs, raises his hands. “You’re the artist.” 

“No, it makes sense.” Dean nods. “I’ll think about it.” 

Aidan tilts his head to the side, lifts his eyebrows at him. “Alright?”

And Dean does something that Aidan has always hated: he shakes his head and he smiles, and Aidan knows he’s not alright at all. But he says, “I’m fine. Now stop talking to me and start doing Aidan things.”

“I am doing an Aidan thing. I’m talking to the man I love.” 

“One of them.” Dean snaps his photo anyway.

“Completely irrelevant correction.” 

“But true nonetheless.”

* * * 

Dean does the self-portraits. 

Aidan only learns this because he’s home alone and snooping around the studio, which he does rather often when Dean is working on a project. This is a rather large-scale series, and the prints he has deemed worth including in the show are tacked to the wall on the far side of the studio, where they’ll get the most sunlight. He has clearly been rearranging and changing the order of the photos, since several of them are creased at the edges, and some of them have more tack holes than others. 

The photos of Aidan and Richard hang right in the middle of the group. The photo of Richard is first, and he’s caught at the counter in the kitchen, frozen halfway to pouring coffee grounds into the filter. The photo of Aidan, beside him, was taken in the same spot, days later, when Aidan was leaned against that same counter, drinking a cup of coffee and looking out the window. They are so sequential that it almost seems posed, and Aidan loves them and makes a mental note to insist Dean let them hang them in the flat when the run of the show is over.

When he finally tires of staring at the photos, he pokes around Dean’s desk, glancing at the photos that Dean hasn’t decided on, or that he’s rejected completely. Among the latter, Aidan finds the self-portraits, and he can tell right away why Dean has decided not to use them. He clearly took them on a timer, and they are the same kinds of mundane activities that he took photos of Aidan and Richard doing, eating a sandwich, shaving, taking a kip in the middle of the afternoon, and in every single one, Dean looks irreparably sad. 

It almost stuns Aidan. He doesn’t move for a long time, and instead just stares at the photos laid out before him, soaking in the bruises beneath his tired eyes, and the creases starting to form almost permanently between his eyebrows and at the corners of his mouth, and the way his shoulders curve in like he can’t quite hold them as straight as he used to. It’s funny: he hasn’t really noticed any of those things when he’s actually _with_ Dean, but here, laid out in photographs, it’s so easy to see it.

He looks at them for so long that when Richard comes home and calls his name, he forgets to answer, and his lover finds him standing over them. “What’s wrong?”

Aidan helplessly brandishes his arm in the direction of the photos, the knot in his throat holding his vocal cords hostage. Richard looks at them quietly, picking them up one by one to study them. Aidan looks at Richard, who is beautiful, and he tries very hard not to think he looks sad as well. He can’t be making them both that unhappy. “These certainly aren’t the best photos I’ve ever seen of Dean,” he murmurs finally. “He looks tired.” 

Aidan doesn’t say anything.

Richard kisses his hair. “Let’s go make dinner, yeah? I’m starving.”

* * * 

Read-throughs are kicking his arse. 

He is realizing rather quickly why he doesn’t generally do these kinds of films. They’re emotionally exhausting. The idea of being separated for long periods of time from the one he loves, having to reconcile wanting her to be happy and wanting to be with her - it’s something that cuts too close to home for him, more on some scenes than others. And they’ve all been so terribly congratulatory on set; he’s been doing very well with all of it, and his difficulty keeping himself separate has clearly been reading well through his lines.

But god, does he go home at the end of the day dragging his feet.

He shoulders open the door with Chinese takeaway in hand, since it’s his night to arrange dinner and cooking is absolutely out of the question after a day like today. He is greeted by the sound of laughter, which immediately eases the tension in his shoulders and neck, and his face goes relaxed with his smile. He feels how terribly tired he is, suddenly, but he also realizes that he’s home, and so are both of the people he loves the most.

He toes off his shoes and wanders into the kitchen to put the bags down on the counter and, seemingly prompted by the sounds indicating Aidan is home (or by the smell of food), Richard and Dean emerge from the Dean’s studio, grinning brightly, cheeks rosy with laughter. Richard has Dean’s favorite camera swinging from its strap around his neck.

Aidan’s eyebrows shoot up, and he begins to unload the food. “What have you two been up to?”

“Well, Rich hated my self-portraits.” Dean leans against the island, smiling over his shoulder at Richard. “So he took it upon himself to take new photos of me.”

“And they’re awful,” Richard puts in with a nod. “Yeah. I mean, Dean is gorgeous in them, because Dean is gorgeous, but I am honestly hopeless with a camera.” 

“It’s true; he is.”

Aidan holds his hand out for the camera, and Richard puts it in his palm. He waits for it to power up and presses the review button. He is rewarded with a slightly blurry photo of Dean standing in the center of his studio, his head thrown back with laughter. Aidan’s face brightens with a smile. 

He flips through them, taking his time, studying each one. Richard obviously followed Dean around taking photos of him, the same way Dean did with both of them. Aidan laughs outright at a photo in which Dean has obviously just tripped over the rug, and at another in which the whole upper half of his body is inside the fridge, his arse and legs the only part of him visible.

His favorite by far is the very first that was taken. It is blurry around the edges, but Dean is perfectly in-focus, sitting on the balcony, right ankle resting on his left knee, smoking a cigarette, his smile equal parts fond and exasperated, London spread out behind him. He is not looking at the camera. He is very obviously looking at Richard just behind it. 

“I like this one.” Aidan shows it to them both. “It should be in the show.” 

Dean leans his cheek against his fist. “You think so?”

“Yes. You’re gorgeous. And it’s you all over. In fact, it should be the very last photo. To remind everyone whose talent they’ve been enjoying.”

“I like that idea,” Richard agrees. “But you’d have to move the photos of us as well. We’re a package deal, the three of us.”

“Besides, the show should certainly end with our handsome fucking faces, yeah?” Aidan grins.

“Your reasoning is perfectly sound, of course.” Dean laughs. “I’ll consider it.”

* * * 

Two days later, when Aidan wanders into the studio, he finds the photo tacked to the wall, right at the end of the line.

* * * 

When _Richard III_ opens, Aidan and Dean have box seats, and they lean against the ledge so they can be as close as possible. Richard is beautiful and strong, the set of his shoulders straight and firm, the clench of his jaw and the curve of his eyebrows - he is so kingly that Aidan’s heart settles right at the bottom of his throat, and each beat threatens to suffocate him. 

Dean is quiet beside him, equally enthralled. Their shoulders touch, and Aidan can feel the thrum through him, the admiration and pleasure and pride that _this man_ , this Richard who is playing _Richard_ , and not just playing him but _occupying_ him, inhabiting him, is _theirs_. At the end of the night, he will come home with them. He will drink champagne with them. They will climb into bed together. They might even make love, and the three of them haven’t done that in so long that Aidan actually feels a surge of excitement at the prospect. He laces his fingers with Dean’s, because he can, and because he doesn’t care if anyone notices, and is rewarded by Dean squeezing his hand.

“ _The king’s name is a tower of strength._ ”

Indeed. 

* * * 

They do make love. Drunk on excitement and pride and most of three bottles of champagne, the three of them tumble into bed. Dean has Richard’s shirt off before Aidan can even process what’s happening, and they’re kissing, Dean’s hand cupping the curve of his neck, his thumb pressed against the column of his throat, and then Richard’s hand is in Aidan’s hair, and he pulls him down, and Dean is making quick work of Richard’s belt and trousers. 

Aidan rakes his fingers through Richard’s hair, breathes out hot and sweet against his mouth. “I love you,” he whispers, running his fingers along his cheek. It’s scratchy with his five o’clock shadow, and he rubs his own cheek there, letting it elicit a shiver down his spine.

Richard groans and arches, and Aidan turns to see Dean has closed his mouth over his cock, and is trying, quite successfully, to make Richard’s eyes roll back. Aidan draws his attention back to him, takes him with another kiss, licking into his mouth, and it’s one of those sexy, distracted kisses that Aidan rather loves, all harsh breaths and scraping teeth and a little too much tongue. He rubs his hand over the curling hairs on Richard’s chest, and he knows the exact moment he comes, because his mouth goes slack, and his heartbeat is hard and fast beneath Aidan’s fingers, a flush rising up his neck.

He kisses him again, slowly, and Richard laughs breathlessly, cupping the back of Aidan’s head to hold him close. “What?” Aidan murmurs, grinning despite himself.

Richard shakes his head. His face has gone spotty with red, mostly from champagne but probably a bit from the combination of Aidan and Dean, who is currently trying to get completely out of his clothes and to tug half-heartedly at Aidan’s. “Just been a while. I’ve missed this. Come here you.” He beckons to Dean, who returns naked to the bed, and Aidan can tell its his turn to get undressed, so he does, clumsily, trying to watch Dean and Richard: the way Dean’s hand splays against Richard’s chest, his leg hitching up against his hip, their mouths pressing together again.

They seem oblivious to Aidan for the moment, and he can’t decide if he likes that or not, but it doesn’t matter because the bed dips when he crawls back onto it, and Dean reaches for him, because Richard wants him, and Dean wants to give him to Richard. So he straddles Richard’s thighs and brings their mouths together, rubbing and caressing and urging Richard back to readiness, while Dean presses kisses to Aidan’s shoulders and presses his fingers inside him, and when Aidan is keen for it, rocking back and making soft hurt noises in his throat, Dean drags his hips down and onto Richard, and he breathes out a small relieved sound, his head tipped back. Dean kisses his throat before he begins to rock, his hands curled into the blankets by Richard’s shoulders. 

Dean, always patient, sits to the side, watches them, leaning back on his hands. Richard slides his hands up Aidan’s sides, lifts his hips to meet him as he rolls down, and it’s so _perfect_. They are quiet, except for those strange little sounds their bodies make: the wet breaths and slide of skin and scrape of Richard’s palms over the fine hair on Aidan’s legs. It’s enough, and then it’s too much, because Richard comes, hot and perfect, inside him, and with a hand on his cock, Aidan follows.

They somehow ease down to relax side-by-side on the bed, catching their breath, and then Dean starts whinging. “Now hang on, don’t go all sleepy-eyed.” He practically throws himself on top of them, and they both _oof!_ and laugh.

“God, O’Gorman, could you be any heavier?” Aidan shoves at him.

“Shut it. It’s my turn!” 

“Alright, alright, come here,” Richard chuckles, wiggling out from under him and propping himself up on his arm so he can pull him in against him and curl his hand around his cock. Dean immediately calms, nosing against Richard’s jaw like a puppy. Aidan lies there watching them, lazily running his knuckles against Dean’s collarbone. They slot so well together, Dean curled into the long length of Richard’s body; it makes something warm and slightly sick rise in Aidan’s stomach. Then Dean’s fingers close around Aidan’s wrist, and he tugs until Aidan rolls over into him, curling his hand over Richard’s, and kisses him. He always comes quietly, and now is no exception, and Aidan takes his time pulling away, allowing their tongues to slide together, and then pushes himself off the bed to go get a cloth to clean them up with. 

When they’re all somewhat less disgusting, Dean rolls over into Richard’s arms, mushing his face against his collarbone the way he always does when he’s moments from sleep. So Aidan tosses the rag at the laundry basket and crawls back into bed, pulling the blankets up over them, and spoons up against Dean’s back. He smiles at Richard over his head. “We’re so proud of you,” he murmurs. “You were amazing tonight.”

Richard, as always, responds by dropping his eyes, the corners of his lips quirking up into a smile. “Thank you. I was so happy you were there.”

“You were brilliant,” Dean murmurs, eyes closed. “Was telling everyone, ‘He’s ours. He’s with us.’ during the standing ovation.”

“I honestly wish that wasn’t true, but it completely is,” Aidan giggles, all manic energy.

Richard is smiling so hard that it probably hurts, even as his eyes start drooping. “I was so worried I was going to muck it up.” 

“There’s no way in the world.” Aidan’s voice is firm. “You’ve never mucked up a thing in your life. That’s my job.”

Richard tugs at one of his curls, chastising him. Then they quiet for sleep.

* * * 

When they first agreed to do this, the three of them, they sat down and had a long talk about what it all meant. 

It wasn’t that Dean and Richard weren’t attracted to each other, or didn’t like each other, but they really knew that they were both in this because they were in love with Aidan, and Aidan wasn’t willing to give either of them up. 

Aidan remembered Richard’s rather conservative way of viewing the world being skewed a bit, and he looked uncomfortable through most of the conversation. But Dean, who really had suggested it as a solution so they could be together, hadn’t really batted an eyelash.

“We’re not the only people in the world to try a polyamorous relationship,” he pointed out. “I mean, there are enough people that there’s a word for it. If anyone can make it work, it’s the three of us.”

And really, that was how easy it was. Dean and Richard shared Aidan, and Aidan, despite hating how that sounded, like he was a piece of particularly valuable property, was rather happy to be shared. He was always in the middle, and though it dragged and pulled at him sometimes, Dean and Richard seemed happy, and that made him happy too.

Now he is exhausted, because he is always exhausted lately. The sleepiness tugs at the corners of his eyes, lays to rest in his bones. His feet ache near constantly, and he can almost never convince himself to stay standing for more than a few minutes at a time. 

Luckily, he has a week off before production begins in earnest, and he intends to spend as much of it possible sleeping and kissing Richard or Dean. He feels like he hasn’t seen them in days. Dean has been up early or late making phone calls to New Zealand, now that his collection is nearing completion. He’s spent the rest of his time in the studio he’s rented somewhere in Westminster, putting his prints together, deciding how he wants them to look, away from the distractions of his comfort at home. Richard, of course, has been at the Globe almost every night, and most afternoons. 

Now, walking through the door, the flat is quiet. Not the kind of quiet that means no one’s home, but a sort of pregnant quiet, like there are people sleeping somewhere inside. He closes the door softly and is careful about setting down his bag and taking off his shoes, just in case, since he doesn’t want to wake anyone from an afternoon kip, and indeed, fully intends to join him, whoever it is.

He pads into the kitchen to get a glass of water and realizes very quickly why the flat is so quiet, because Dean and Richard are both in the kitchen, and they are kissing. Aidan freezes in the doorway, staring at them, because Dean is sitting on the counter, his fingers curled in the hair at the back of Richard’s head, leaning on his other arm, and Richard stands between his legs, his hands braced against the counter, content to be held in close. 

They haven’t noticed him yet, and he’s not sure he wants them to, but eventually, they break apart, smiling at each other, eyes hooded, and when Dean sees him, standing speechless staring at them, the smile fades rather quickly. “Aidan,” he breathes, sliding off the counter with a hand to Richard’s chest, pushing him back. Richard doesn’t say anything, just looks between them, his expression shuttered.

Aidan manages a smile. “Hi. Um. I’m back early.” That sounds so fucking lame. His hands are shaking. He backs out of the room. “I’ll go, shall I? Leave you to it.”

Richard finds his voice, takes a step after him. “Aidan...” but Aidan is fleeing, and fleeing fast. He hooks his fingers into his shoes and takes them with him outside, just so he doesn’t have to waste any more time getting them on, and then he’s down the stairs, breathing fresh air, eyes burning. He shoves his feet into them, and then he’s off, walking, not sure where he’s going.

* * * 

He’s not completely positive why it bothers him. 

He realizes that in his second mile. He knows vaguely that he’s directed himself in a wide circle around their flat, and that eventually, he will arrive back at their own front door, but he’s not quite willing to get there yet, so he slows his pace.

It’s exactly what he wanted, if he’s honest with himself. He wanted Richard and Dean to want each other too. He always has. It would have made everything so much simpler from the beginning, to know that they weren’t both just in this to be with him. 

So he begins to wonder if now that they _do_ want each other, he’s jealous. But no, that’s not really it either. He feels, of all things, _betrayed_. Like they’ve been keeping a secret from him all this time. And that realization makes him so tired. 

He hails a taxi to take him home. 

* * * 

Dean is sitting in the living room when he gets there, staring into a cup of tea. He looks up when he comes into the room. Aidan just stands next to the sofa, looks around, refuses to meet his eye. “Where’s Richard?”

“Went to the Globe. Can we talk?”

Aidan shrugs one shoulder.

“That’s not really an answer.”

“I’m listening. So talk.”

“Okay. I need to know how you feel about things, so I can explain them to you.”

Aidan sighs, looks at him for the first time. Dean’s studying his face, eyes serious and soft. He’s always thought of Dean’s eyes as _dancing_ , which is terribly insufficient to describe them, but Aidan’s never considered himself a poet. But Dean always looks like the world’s a joke, a game, something to be enjoyed as much as possible, so this expression - solemn and tired - doesn’t suit him at all. 

“I don’t know how I feel. I don’t - I’m not sure what’s happening.”

Dean pats the couch beside him, and Aidan slides wearily onto the cushion. He takes Dean’s tea, swallows a large sip of him. It’s cold, and bitter, like he oversteeped it by accident. He makes a face. 

“I just - I don’t know why you thought you couldn’t tell me about it,” Aidan says slowly. “Why couldn’t you have let me _know_?” He looks up at him again. “I wouldn’t have been upset.”

“Your reaction today seems to suggest otherwise.”

The response makes him irrationally angry, because he wanted this to be the _first_ time, for it to be as easy to forgive as that. “So - it’s been going on that long. That you’ve thought about telling me and just decided not to?” He sets the mug on the floor with a clink against the wood, and stands up, pacing. “What was the plan? To leave me? To spring it on me and then go?”

Dean scowls. “That’s fucking ridiculous. Of course not.”

“Then why didn’t you _tell me_?” 

“We didn’t know _how_!” Dean is on his feet now too, doing his best not to shout. He takes a breath and visibly calms, his shoulders sagging, going narrow. “God. At first it just - it wasn’t even anything. And then it just - it _felt_ right, to be making love, and to be spending time together, and you weren’t _here_ that often.”

“Hey, you guys have been pretty fucking absent yourselves.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“So what did you mean?”

Dean runs a hand over his head, scratching through his hair. “We didn’t know how you’d react. You’ve been our glue for so long, Aid. And then we sort of fell apart there for a bit, yeah? You looked so unhappy all the time, and then we all stopped seeing each other. And Rich and I - we fucking missed each other. I don’t think we expected that to happen, but it did.”

Aidan doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

“Do you love him?” 

“I do.” Dean laughs a little breathlessly. His gaze is steady. “I really fucking do, Aid.”

Aidan drops his eyes. “Do you still love me?”

“Aidan.” Dean is suddenly right there, his hands cupped around Aidan’s face. He is shaking his head. “That was never ever a question.” He stands on his toes to press his lips to his hair, eyes closed. “We love you. So much. So _fucking_ much.” He kisses him, and Aidan lets him. “You are not meant to be collateral damage here.” 

Aidan laughs at the word choice, curls his fingers into Dean’s shirt. “When did it happen?” He lets Dean pull him back to the couch, and they sit holding hands.

Dean lets out a long breath, like he’s afraid to say it. “Right after we did the portraits for my show.” At the expression on Aidan’s face, he winces. “I know. It’s been a while. We just - we weren’t sure how to break it to you. He saw that I was unhappy, and he guessed correctly about why.”

“I didn’t even really know,” Aidan admits quietly.

“I didn’t want you to. I knew how hard things had been on you lately, how torn apart you felt. I didn’t want you to feel any worse.”

Aidan thumbs the inside of Dean’s wrist, nodding. “So what was it?”

“Hm?”

“Why were you unhappy?” 

Dean’s lips quirk up in the corners. “You know that saying? ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder’?” Aidan nods. “I was missing Rich terribly. I hadn’t been so certain about how I felt about him until one day I realized that I had to sleep apart from him sometimes, and that we were almost never home to even have dinner or breakfast together most days, and depending on how you were feeling, we had very little together time, the three of us. It was hard.”

“And Richard knew because he felt the same way?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s smile is faint but warm, like sunshine glowing through a cloud. “It just sort of happened.” 

“So that day, when I came home and he had your camera...?”

“Yeah,” Dean admits. “That’s when it started.” 

“Fuck.” 

They sit in silence for a long minute.

“I’m so sorry, Aid.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “No, don’t be. This was - I’m kind of at fault here, aren’t I? I asked so much of you guys, and you gave and gave, and you never complained, and I put you in a position where you felt like you had to keep something a secret from me.” He shrugs a shoulder, quirks the corner of his mouth, staring down at their hands where they’re laced against his leg. “So I feel like I need to extend the same courtesy to you. Let me back off.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let me... step away from this, for a bit. Let you and Richard have some you-and-Richard time.” Dean starts to protest, but Aidan holds up a hand. “No. I’ve been occupying you both for years. You’ve focused so much love and devotion on me. You deserve to be able to give some of that to each other. I don’t mind.”

“I do.” Dean’s eyes are fierce, fiery. “I just told you that we’re not forsaking you and what we have with you to have something between us. That’s not how it works.”

“I asked you to do that for me.”

“Not _intentionally_. You would never have asked us to keep separate if you thought it would hurt either of us.”

“It won’t hurt me.” 

“Aidan.” Dean takes his chin in hand and turns his face so he meets his gaze. “I’m going to tell you this, and so is Rich. You are fucking _stuck_ with us. It doesn’t matter if we’re nose-over-tail for each other, which we are, by the way, because we are also nose-over-tail for you.” Aidan laughs at that, and Dean kisses his nose as reward. “So get used to us, Turner. Get used to seeing us making out all the time and walking in on us having sex and being goopy. Because honestly, I’ve been seeing that happen between you and Richard for years, and vise versa. Trust me: It’s time you got a taste of it.” 

“I got a taste of it today. It wasn’t so nice.”

“Well, it gets better,” Dean assures him. “The first time I saw you with Richard, I wanted to rip his throat out for kissing you. When I got used to the idea, it made me all happy and warm inside, like soup.”

“Soppy.”

“Shut up; I’m trying to be sweet here.” 

“You just said you had an actual thought about murdering our lover, and then that he made you feel like _soup_.”

Dean grins. “‘Our’ lover.”

And maybe for the first time since the conversation started, it’s easy for Aidan to smile. “Indeed.”

* * * 

It’s not easy, not at first. 

Though he tries hard not to be, Aidan is still angry and hurt that they kept this secret from him. 

Really, despite Dean’s warning about walking in on them or having to deal with them acting besotted all the time, very little changes. Dean and Richard have never been the overly demonstrative ones in their relationship; that has always been Aidan. Not that they skimp on affection, certainly. 

Usually the kind of thing Aidan has been getting used to seeing is the casual way Richard might pass a hand over the small of Dean’s back when he walks by, or how sometimes, Dean stands on his toes to kiss the nape of Richard’s neck. Richard has been teaching Dean to cook, so Aidan often finds them standing side-by-side at the stove or counter, their hips bumping, laughter bubbling between them. 

There is always room for Aidan though. They did not fail to keep that promise. He just isn’t always in the middle, the center of attention, and he’s not quite sure he’s ready to admit what a relief that is yet. 

Two months after their conversation, _Richard III_ closes, and Aidan takes a short leave-of-absence from the film, and Dean keeps his promise to take Aidan and Richard with him when he goes away. So they crowd onto an airplane at Heathrow and fly to New Zealand for the opening of his show.

It’s as beautiful as Aidan thought it would be. The photos, blown up, printed on canvas, are splashes of color against the white walls of the studio. Dean decided to organize them by living spaces, instead of by age or chronology, so he finds kitchens in a room toward the back: a warm marigold and red splashed country kitchen with a wrinkled old woman making cake. A yellow kitchen with daisies on the table, where a little boy is helping his mother roll out dough for bread. A spare cream-colored room, obviously a rented flat or house, where a man wraps his lover’s hand, after he’s dropped a plate and cut it; the plate lies in pieces on the table. He doesn’t find the photo of Richard or the photo of himself.

As he wanders through the show, he continues to look for them. He doesn’t find them. He also doesn’t find any other photos of them. He does eventually find Dean and Richard though, standing with their fingers lightly linked before what is Richard’s favorite photo of a little girl sound asleep in a bedroom filled with stuffed cows. She even has one tucked under her arm.

Aidan slides a kiss hello across Dean’s cheek, and Dean smiles at him. “This is fucking beautiful.”

“It did come out pretty well, didn’t it?” Dean doesn’t do modest, and Aidan likes that.

“It really did. But where are the photos you took of us, and the one Richard took of you?”

“Well, Rich’s is in the handout.” Dean gives him a copy of program. There on the front is Dean, smiling up at him. “Besides, I’ve hung all three of them in my studio.”

“I didn’t see them there.”

“I did it just before we left, so you wouldn’t.” Dean shrugs lightly. “I thought about having them in the show, but... they’re ours. They’re for us.” 

“Oh, I see. We’re too good-looking for the show. You had to take us out.”

He laughs. “Of course. That’s the only possible explanation.” 

Richard looks very intently at Dean for a moment, smiling. “I would very much like to kiss you,” he decides. 

For the first time, that swoop of nausea at seeing them together, the confusing apprehension, doesn’t start up in Aidan’s stomach. When Dean looks up at him, his eyes creased at the corners with his smile, and says, “Ah, the feeling is mutual,” Aidan has to agree.


End file.
